


Dear Mom

by flootzavut



Series: Next Time [14]
Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Angst, Epistolary, Heavy Angst, M/M, Other, Prose and letters, Rage eats a chicken, References Canon Character Death, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Third Person POV, canon minor character death, first person POV, nexttimeverse, non-canon suicide of minor character, queer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-27 22:26:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15694590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flootzavut/pseuds/flootzavut
Summary: Hawk writes to his mom, and to his dad.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onekisstotakewithme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onekisstotakewithme/gifts).



> I'm... sorry?
> 
> (Also, trying to get the formatting to look good for a bunch of little letters/letter excerpts is Hard™, but hopefully it's at least legible...)

* * *

_**Dear Mom**_

* * *

 

> I miss you, Mommy.

* * *

 

> I don't understand why Dad won't talk to me, Mom. I miss you. I looked up tuberculosis today, but that doesn't fit either. I guess it's back to the books. It's been ages and I still can't figure it out.
> 
> Dad told me I'm growing up too fast, but all I want is to understand.

* * *

 

> no. no.
> 
> i don't believe it. you wouldn't do that to me. not if you really loved me. you wouldn't leave without saying goodbye to me.
> 
> i don't believe it. i won't believe it.

* * *

 

> ~~I hate you~~ I miss you

* * *

 

> my mom killed herself my mom killed herself my mom killed herself my mom killed herself my mom killed herself my mom killed herself my mom killed herself my mom killed herself my mom killed herself

* * *

 

> I don't understand how you could do that to me.
> 
> I don't understand.
> 
> I'll never understand.
> 
> ~~I hate you I'll never forgive you~~

* * *

 

> Dad still won't talk about it. Or maybe he can't. If I try and talk to him, he gets this pinched look around his mouth like he's in pain, and there's so much I want to ask him, but I can't bear that expression.
> 
> It's been five years, Mom. I still miss you.

* * *

 

> what if it happens to me?

* * *

 

> After all these years being so determined to be a surgeon, I started looking into psychiatry, and I wish I hadn't. There's so little they can do. I thought maybe I could stop this happening to someone else, but if being locked up and having nurses and doctors all around didn't help, then it just seems so hopeless.

* * *

 

> I love you, Mom.

* * *

 

> Was it my fault?

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special shoutout to birdabird and DoctorAwesome from [The Swamp](https://discord.gg/H5nHFr4) for reading this chapter through for me ♥️

Daniel didn't expect to find a letter when he last visited Adelaide's grave.

When Ben was a youngster, they were a regular occurrence, a way for Ben to let out some of his pain. A way for the two of them to talk without having to talk, especially about Adelaide herself. Daniel doesn't remember how exactly they came to that understanding, just that they did, and that it was a lifeline for Ben, sometimes even for Daniel.

But he wasn't prepared for it to happen again, wasn't even close to ready.

There were always letters when Ben came back to Maine to visit, but they were usually short and mostly (Daniel suspects) comfort rather than catharsis. The last time was before Korea, before Ben was even drafted.

The worst ones were when Ben was a teenager, angry at life, at death, trying to process his realisation Adelaide hadn't died of a physical illness, that she'd taken her own life. That there were some things neither medicine nor surgery could help. That he had no one to blame for her death except her own demons.

Daniel remembers those times all too vividly. Ben's anger and distress poured out in vivid, brutal prose or in quiet despair. Daniel has never been as scared for his son as he has since the end of the war, but there were moments during Ben's youth that were almost as bad.

(Daniel's lost count of the times the letters were simply 'my mom killed herself', over and over, on pages torn out of the back of exercise books, on used envelopes, on the back of old scrips, in black ink and blue ink and red, as if it had taken days to fill each page. As if Ben just needed to get it out, needed to exorcise it. As if writing it enough times could stop it from being true or stop it hurting.)

Those themes have never gone away.

Daniel still hadn't truly come to terms with Adelaide's death himself, and he was more prepared, more able to cope. Ben may be a grown man, but part of him is still the scared little kid who doesn't understand, still the angry teenager. Still Benjamin, the boy who misses his mom. Daniel's not sure that will ever change, and he sees it most in these letters.

Sometimes, alone in bed at night, Daniel lets himself remember Adelaide. Adelaide how she was when she was well: bright and full of life, like a spring day in human form. Loving and beautiful and made of sunshine.

The warmth of her body. The sense of rightness when they kissed, when he held her, when they made love. The feeling of belonging he hadn't felt since Isaac.

How terrifying it was when she fell ill, and he found himself slowly but surely losing her to a brokenness he was ill-equipped to deal with and completely unable to vanquish, despite all his studies and training.

He can't help himself, even though he knows it will only make him sad. On nights like that, the pain of missing her is as sharp as it was just after she died, when they were still reeling. When he had to explain to his young son that Mommy was never coming home.

He's long since forgiven Adelaide for hurting him. He's a doctor, he knows that one cannot defeat depression by sheer force of will. (If it were possible, she would have prevailed.) That blaming Addy for the illness that claimed her life is unfair and unreasonable.

It's harder, much harder, to forgive her for the way she hurt Ben. Even though he knows in his head it's just as unfair and unreasonable, when there's a child involved, logic is scant comfort.

Ben is not a child anymore, but his pain is as palpable as it was two decades ago. In some ways, it might be more intense now. He's written to Adelaide so many times about what she did and why, but before Korea, he didn't understand. Now he does, and Daniel wishes he didn't.

So much changed because of Korea, and Daniel picked up that letter, the first in so long, like it was a live grenade. Ben's handwriting, the envelope secured in place with a stone; Daniel knew instantly what it was, and both had no idea what to expect and knew, in his bones, that he was about to have his heart torn out.

He was right.

He keeps the letter in his breast pocket; a reminder of how much his son is struggling, and to take nothing for granted. He can't reread it without crying. Some of it is etched into his brain and heart so deeply, thinking about it is enough to bring the words and tears back to him:

> Another part rails against those promises. It's not fair of them to put that on me. It's not fair that I have to go on like this because I gave my word. It's not fair, Mom. It's not fair.
> 
> None of it's fair. It's not fair that I lost you. It's not fair that I can't lose myself.

There's a knot of guilt and pain and fear in Daniel's chest over Ben's anguished words, and it won't go away. It reminds him too much of finding those empty bottles, of searching the house, desperately afraid. He's certain Ben has no idea how hard that hit him. He still hasn't told Ben about his panic, about how terrified he was. He's still not sure whether or not he should.

 _It's not fair that I can't lose myself_. It sounds much too much like something Adelaide would have said.

There are letters that Ben keeps to himself, Daniel's sure - just as Daniel has secrets he's still not quite ready to share. And secrets he's ready to share but doesn't know how. (So far, Isaac is still in the latter category.)

Seeing a new letter there today stops him short, and he has to clamp his jaw shut and close his eyes against the tears that spring up. He can't get used to how hurt Ben is, how haunted, how broken.

He's a doctor. He doesn't want to get used to it; he wants to fix it.

He retrieves the letter, places his own stone next to Ben's, then sits on the grass to one side of the grave, takes a deep breath, and tears the envelope open. "Our son is a wonderful man, you know," he tells Adelaide as he pulls the letter out. "Troubled, hurting. But you would be so proud of him. I wish you were still here to tell him that." He laughs humourlessly. "I do wish he could be a little less like you though, Addy. I couldn't stand to lose him as well." 

> Hi, Mom. I miss you.

Ben's letters to Adelaide are much kinder these days. It's not a fair exchange, but with his experience of emotional pain and burnout after Korea, much of Ben's anger at his mother has dissipated. Daniel can't think of it as a silver lining - Ben forgiving her because he now understands how overwhelming suicidal urges can be is hardly a good thing - but it's one of the very few positives Daniel can take from the situation.

At least he knows that Ben remembers their arrangement - hasn't forgotten that Daniel will read this letter - even if the way Ben talks about it breaks his heart.

> Part of me knew all along. It was one of those secrets Dad and I shared without talking about, the way I'd tell you something that was troubling me and Dad would come home and squeeze my shoulder and offer some quiet advice, or take me out fishing on the weekend. The times I'd say how much I missed you, and he'd tell stories from before I was born, bring out a photograph album full of good memories, or sit and talk with me about better times.
> 
> Sometimes he'd just give me a hug and tell me he loved me, and it helped. Maybe better than anything else. I've always known Dad loves me, and I've seen enough by now not to take that for granted, but hearing it aloud is always special.
> 
> (I was so angry, Mom. Sometimes I look back and wonder how he kept from punishing me for the awful things I wrote you. He's a better man than I'll ever be.)
> 
> So I mean, I knew. I'm not an idiot, Mom. At least, not about that. I make stupid choices and I fall in love with the wrong people and I hurt those I care about way too often. I'm not an idiot, though. Not that way.
> 
> But still, it was like magic. Every time I came back, the letter was gone. And even though I knew why, it didn't stop part of me from hoping and wishing.
> 
> It still doesn't.
> 
> There's a little boy inside me, who I was back when I believed in magic and miracles as well as medicine, who still thinks that if the letter disappears, it means you've read it; somewhere out there you're listening and you understand.
> 
> Even though I know it's ridiculous and childish, no matter how much I know different, even though it's another unspoken deal with Dad - that little boy refuses to believe you're really gone. I believe in you the way people believe in Santa or God or so many of the things they trust in despite having no proof, despite all evidence to the contrary.
> 
> I believe because I desperately want it to be true.

Daniel tries so hard to nurture and care for that part of his son, the part of him that isn't completely jaded. The part of him the war miraculously didn't kill. Daniel strongly suspects that just as BJ saved Ben's life, he saved what was left of Ben's innocence as well.

> I need it to be true. I need to believe in something. Or at least, I need other people to believe. To know that it's possible for someone, even if it's not possible for me. (Beej seems to have that kind of faith in me, and it terrifies me to think I might let him down, but it's also part of what keeps me going, keeps me from giving in.)
> 
> Oh God, Mom. Beej. I miss him as much as I miss you. Maybe more, which is so hard to write. It's disloyal, or at least it feels that way.
> 
> Beej is the person who knew me in Korea, who understands what it's like to carry the weight of those experiences, who saw me at my worst so many times and still hasn't given up on me. He saw me make bad choices and do terrible things, and he loved me anyway. He keeps on loving me, even though he knows as well as I do that I don't deserve it.
> 
> And I love him, Mom. Hearing his voice on the phone... it was amazing. Just for a moment, it made everything better. Everything. I'm so scared to go visit - I'm scared I'll screw things up, mess up our friendship. I'm scared he or Peg will figure out I'm irretrievably ruined, that I'm simply not worth the effort or pain.
> 
> I don't know if I could deal with losing Beej. I tried not to lean too hard on him, but it was like trying to hold back the tide. He's become even more important to me, and I didn't think that was possible. I miss him so damn much.
> 
> (I'm even more scared of how I could hurt him and his family. I am a lost cause, I'm resigned to that. If it screws me over, what's the difference? If I hurt Peg or Erin, though, if I somehow wrecked BJ's life? I don't know how I'd live with myself.)
> 
> I have to go see them, despite all my misgivings. I'm scared as hell, but I have to. Especially after the letter from Peg. Even if all I get to do is to be on the edges looking in, I still need it. Maybe it'll help, or maybe it'll prove once and for all how ridiculous it is that they chose to care for me, and that they shouldn't. Maybe it'll be the thing that finishes me. But at least I'll know. If it's the end of me, at least I'll know for certain.

Tears fall silently down Daniel's cheeks. He doesn't understand Ben's relationship with BJ, not really. But he does understand Ben's feelings. He knows what it's like to love someone so deeply when it's hopeless, when everything says it's impossible. He has no answers, no solutions. He can't even claim the world is a better and kinder place now, because even if it's true (and Daniel isn't sure that it is, although he's much more confident in his ability to navigate it), it wouldn't change the fact that BJ is happily married, is just as far out of reach as Isaac was all those years ago.

Daniel still has hope that what he and Isaac had isn't irretrievably lost, that they can figure out how to make this work, and can do so safely - two middle-aged men, two doctors, a bachelor and a widower, will hardly raise suspicions. No one would imagine anything was going on there unless they saw incontrovertible proof. Maybe that doesn't speak to a good deal of tolerance amongst the townsfolk, but Daniel will take it if it means a second chance of happiness.

How Ben can possibly find a happy ending, though, Daniel cannot begin to imagine.

> I miss you, Mom.
> 
> Love,
> 
> Benjamin

* * *


End file.
